Channel Hopping
by ElapsingSpiral
Summary: There is just no excuse for this, utter crack. Kirk's unexpected, unintended whistletop tour of parallel dimensions. Vaguely Spirk, totally nonsensical. Tiny bit of language and some sexual stuff.


**Channel Hopping**

The first hint that the plan hadn't a chance in holy hell of working had been Scotty's use of the words "easy-peasy", "definitely" and "flawless". The second hint had probably been the fact that Scotty had said all of those words around a mouthful of corned beef sandwich.

Spock, clearly less enamoured of the technology, stood at Scotty's shoulder in a manner so still and sinister as warrant being described as a third ill-omen in his own right.

"Run it by me one more time Scotty."

"Remote energiser Captain," Scotty had the decency to put his remaining sandwich down while he reiterated with obvious pride, "Press the top button and we'll have you automatically back from the planet, no need for me to lock onto your location, that beauty will do it all for you."

"Captain," Spock said in his classic "utter-disproval-of-everything to do with this idea" tone, "It might be advisable for a member of the engineering department to test the equipment, in the event of a malfunction."

Scotty looked disappointed.

"Mr Spock, you say that as though there will be a problem, I've done all the necessary tests, the Captain'll be fine," the Scotsman paused for a beat before adding, "There's been some rumblings in the Engineering department, anyway."

"Rumblings?" Spock repeated, eyebrow threatening to but not quite raising. Kirk gave an uncomfortable shuffle on the transporter pad before offering an explanation.

"There's some crazy urban legend that it's only the Engineering guys who- well you know that one incident where Ensign Smith's ear was spliced onto the wall over there."

"I fixed it!" Scotty huffed, "His ear was lopsided before anyway, whatever he insists."

"And Yeoman Sanchez's nudity incident. And the time when two officers were transported back onto one pad and were practically-"

"I see, Captain," Spock cut across insistently. Kirk forced down a grin at the tormented look in Spock's eyes that, thanks to Kirk's Spock-to-Kirk translation training, practically shouted itself out to the Captain.

"It was between my contacting Starfleet to see if we could introduce more colour ways into the uniform options or this. And the Engineering department weren't biting, so-"

"My boys are not wearing purple Captain," Scotty said, firmly and as vehemently as a man could while scarfing down a slither of sandwich crust, "Ready for the off?"

"Yep! Top button right?" with a little salute and wink to an openly frowning Spock, Kirk gave the command.

"Energize."

The Vulcan and Scotsman watched as the Captain was whisked from sight. Spock's attention was snapped to the engineer at the loud gulp the man took to clear his mouth for speech. Were it not for the sheer speed of the reaction, Spock might have taken the man's sudden clammy pallor for an adverse reaction to the food.

"Mr Spock?" Scotty asked in the reticent manner of a man aware that his sandwiches-in-the-transporter-bay privileges were about to be revoked.

"Mr Scott?"

"Which way up was the Captain holding that controller?"

Kirk was glad he had chosen to look before leaping for once in his life when the blast of red set-to-kill phaser blast missed his face by millimetres. Harmless Class M planet his ass: a hasty look around told him he was in his transporter room, only, not. In the time it had taken him to transport Scotty and Spock had apparently hired decorators to deck the walls and desks in pitch black and blood red, complete with boudoir style mood lighting overhead. His eyebrows, lost painfully high up in his fringe, and slack jaw flew higher and grew slacker respectively at the sight of a Vulcan stood stiffly in a tight fitting black military uniform.

A number of thoughts flew through Jim's head as he caught the eye of the other man. Specifically and in order: that was his Vulcan; that was his Vulcan in black leather, that a uniform that tight was surely the worst design ever (for combat purposes, other uses might have made it the best clothing ever, Kirk conceded). His Vulcan was in black leather complete with goatee. Scotty was still sat at the controls for the transporter but, in spite of a lack of facial hair, was still somehow looking diabolic and malevolent.

Evil, Kirk guessed was the word he was going for. The whole place looked fricking evil. And so he mashed the button on the controller before Really-Pretty-Handsome-With-Facial-Hair Spock could coolly raise his phaser once more and directed it at his forehead.

"Oh come on," Kirk muttered when his surroundings formed fully and showed him no Class M planet, no weary First Officer, no apologetic Chief Engineer and no obvious solution to his problem.

"Wait, is this place made of cardboard?" Kirk thought aloud. He gave the debatably purple walls of the transporter a wince before his attention settled on a guy in a golden velour shirt a little too snug about the middle. He shared a baffled stare with the man.

"How are you me-oh, hey older Spock!" Kirk grinned, offering a quick wave which was, of course, lost on the considerably younger "older Spock". As both other men made to step towards the transporter Kirk jabbed at the button. Mostly it was to avoid upsetting the timeline, he told himself, but it was at least a little so as to escape the purple.

Kirk was starting to get seasick (spacesick?). He was getting annoyed. This time he was at least closer: definitely the right starship but the men staring in disbelief at the transporter pad were a command-gold clad Spock, other-him at his side, pasty in red.

"Xenolinguists? Oh bad choice other me, c'mon."

It would probably have helped to know how many parallel dimensions there were, Kirk thought as he once again failed to reach home. He supposed, if he considered the matter properly for a moment, it wasn't likely to be the same as flipping channels on an old fashioned television where you'd eventually cycle back around to the start. Who knew, maybe what he was doing was creating dimensions.

Whatever the case, this was his favourite yet. For no reason that Kirk could gather the ship had a tropical level of sticky, humid heat and he was treated to a pleasing eyeful of Spock thigh, calf and snug, short-clad backside before he whisked himself away.

Starfleet summer uniform. Albeit for the slight problem that space had no seasons the addition of shorts to the uniform struck Kirk as utter genius.

There was of course the possibility that his dimension hopping meant that rescuing him was taking more time but Kirk had to be sensible: there was no way he was going to stop in a dimension where the inhabitants looked evil.

And that one where Spock had had decidedly rounded ears and a gigantic grin, accompanied by a Kirk with arched brows and a cold, equally arch demeanour, had been too damn freaky for words.

The one he decided to rest a while in was the most puzzling of all. There was a transporter pad, sure, but there was no ship: more, there was a studio, a really shitty looking film studio with a banner proclaiming "Starfleet Productions" draped on the far wall. He squinted in the bright, hot lights of the set but before his eyes had adjusted to the barrage of white light the sounds, grunts and the unmistakeable smell of sweat and certain other fluids were enough for Kirk to deduce his surroundings.

"Awesome," he grinned in anticipation only to find himself met with the sight of another Spock and another Kirk apparently preparing for a scene.

"For once," he heard himself say irritably, "Can I-"

"No way," a director yelled from somewhere in the shadows, "Mr Jim Kink, the day you can compete with Vulcan stamina is the day you can top. Roll cameras."

"Oh fuck that," Kirk groused.

Weird blue box dimension, kinda-talking bear dimension, everyone –one-was-inexplicably-blue dimension. Click click click went Kirk.

Kirk knew with absolute confidence that he would be recovered in a matter of minutes simply because he absolutely did not want to be.

Right ship, right transporter room. Good start. There was just one little problem in this particular dimension. Or rather two, rather amazing problems nestled under the clinging fabric of Spock's dress. Kirk remembered to blink when his drying eyes began to sting.

"Captain?" Spock asked, still husky but higher pitched. Her long dark hair didn't quite hide the tips of her ears. And also, her breasts were just really, really good. Kirk internally berated himself and focused fully on the woman's address.

"Yes Spock?"

The doors of the transporter room had slid open to reveal another woman. This time in gold, this time a dirty blonde with an easy grin and a loping step. The woman came to a halt a little too close to the Vulcan's side, hand almost brushing the other's hip before following Spock's line of sight to fix on herself. Himself. Spock's breasts. Damn, focus Jimmy.

"Why are we gay everywhere?" he asked eternity. Then, for the first time, it occurred to him to press that other little button on the remote.

Spock did his best to cross the short distance from the transporter controls to the pad by flying, he formed such a blur. Kirk gave him a reassuring, if dazed smile as the Vulcan reached out to touch his shoulder with concern.

"I'm okay. How long was I gone?"

"Seconds. But we couldn't contact you on the planet's surface."

"Yeah, well, no," Kirk climbed down from the transporter and handed the controller back to an impossibly sheepish looking, "Needs a little work."

"Jim," Spock pressed, "What happened?"

"Spock," the Captain led the way from the transporter room, clapping a hand on his First's shoulder, "What are your thoughts on shorts?"


End file.
